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But the damage was done. Mindy wouldn’t stop sobbing and pointing a condemning finger at her twin. “You, bad!”
Molly shook her head. “Am not.”
Nicole shot her outspoken daughter a look meant to silence her, then picked Mindy up and, consoling her while walking toward the hallway, whispered into her ear, “Come on, big girl, let’s brush your teeth and get you into bed.”
“Don’t wanna—” Mindy complained and Molly cackled loudly before realizing she was alone. Quickly she slid out of her chair and little feet pounding, ran after Nicole and Mindy. In the bathroom, the dispute was forgotten, tears were wiped away and two sets of teeth were brushed. As the pizza cooled, mozzarella cheese congealing, Nicole and the girls spent the next twenty minutes cuddled beneath a quilt in her grandmother’s old rocker. She read them two stories they’d heard a dozen times before. Mindy’s eyes immediately shut while Molly, ever the fighter, struggled to stay awake only to drop off a few minutes later.
For the first time that day, Nicole felt at peace. She eyed the fire that Jenny had built earlier. Dying embers and glowing coals in deep ashes were all that remained to light the little living room in shades of gold and red. Humming, she rocked until she, too, nearly dozed off.
Struggling out of the chair she managed to carry her daughters into their bedroom and tuck them into matching twin beds. Mindy yawned and rolled over, her thumb moving instinctively to her mouth and Molly blinked twice, said, “I love you, Mommy,” then fell asleep again.
“Me, too, baby. Me, too.” She kissed each daughter and smelled the scents of shampoo and baby powder, then walked softly to the door.
Molly sighed loudly. Mindy smacked her little lips.
Folding her arms over her chest Nicole leaned against the doorjamb.
Her ex-husband’s words, “You’ll never make it on your own,” echoed through her mind and she felt her spine stiffen. Right, Paul, she thought now, but I’m not on my own. I’ve got the kids. And I’m going to make it. On my own.
Every minute of that painful, doomed marriage was worth it because she had the girls. They were a family—maybe not an old-fashioned, traditional, 1950s sitcom family, but a family nonetheless.
She thought fleetingly of Randi’s baby, tucked away in the maternity ward, his father not yet found, his mother in a coma and she wondered what would become of the little boy.
But the baby has Thorne and Matt and Slade. Between the three of them, certainly the boy would be taken care of. Every one of the McCafferty brothers seemed interested in the child, but each one of them was a bachelor—how confirmed, she didn’t know.
“Not that it matters,” she reminded herself and glanced outside where rain was dripping from the gutters and splashing against the window. She thought of Thorne again, of the way his lips felt against hers, and she realized that she had to avoid being alone with him. She had to keep their relationship professional because she knew from experience that Thorne was trouble.
Big trouble.
* * *
He was making a mistake of incredible proportions and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself. Driving through the city streets and silently marveling at how this town had grown, he’d decided to see Nikki again before returning to the ranch. She’d probably throw him out and he really didn’t blame her as he’d come on way too strong, but he had to see her again.
After watching her wheel out of the parking lot after their last confrontation, he’d walked back into the hospital, downed a cup of bitter coffee in the cafeteria, then tried to track down any doctor remotely associated with Randi and the baby. He’d struck out with most, left messages on their answering machines and after talking to a nurse in Pediatrics and one in ICU, he’d called the ranch, told Slade that he’d be back soon, then paused at the gift shop in the hospital lobby, bought a single white rose and, ducking his shoulders against the rain, ran outside and climbed into his truck.
“This is nuts,” he told himself as he drove across a bridge and into an established part of town, to the address he’d found in the telephone directory when he’d made his calls to the other doctors. Bracing himself for a blistering reception, he parked in front of the small cottage, grabbed the single flower and climbed out of the car.
Jaw set he dashed up the cement walk, and before he could change his mind, pressed on the door buzzer. He’d been in tighter spots than this. He heard noises inside, the sound of feet. The porch light snapped on and he saw her eyebrows and eyes peer through one of the three small windows cut into the door. A moment later they disappeared as, he supposed, she dropped to her flat feet from her tiptoes.
Locks clicked. The door opened. And there she stood, all five feet three of her wrapped in a fluffy white robe. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked without a smile. Her eyes skated from his face to the flower in his hands.
He nearly laughed. “You know, this seemed like a good idea at the time but now…now I feel like a damned fool.”
“Because?” Again the lift of that lofty eyebrow.
“Because I thought I owed you an apology for the way I came on earlier.”
“In the parking lot?”
“And the hospital.”
“You were upset. Don’t worry about it.”
“I wasn’t just upset. I was, as I said before, out of line, and I’d like to make it up to you.”
Her chin lifted a fraction. “Make it up to me? With…that?” she asked, one finger pointing to the single white bud.
“To start with.” He handed her the flower and thought, beneath her hard posturing, he caught a glimpse of a deeper emotion. She held the flower, lifted it to her nose and sighed.
“Thanks. This is enough…more than you needed to do.”
“No, I think I owe you an explanation.”
She tensed again. “It was only a kiss. I’ll live.”
“I mean about the past.”
“No!” She was emphatic. “Look, let’s just forget it, okay? It’s been a long day. For both of us. Thanks for the flower and the apology, it’s…it’s very nice of you, but I think it would be best—for everyone, including your sister and her new baby—if we both just pretended that nothing ever happened between us.”
“Can you?”
“Y-yes. Of course.”
He couldn’t stop one side of his mouth from twitching upward. “Liar,” he said and Nicole nearly took a step backward. Who was he to stop by her house and…and what? Apologize? What’s the crime in that? Why don’t you ask him in and offer him a cup of coffee or a drink?
“No!”
“You’re not a liar?”
“Not usually,” she said, recovering a bit. She felt the lapel of her bathrobe gap and it took all of her willpower not to clutch it closed like a silly, frightened virgin. “You seem to bring out the worst in me.”
“Ditto.” He leaned forward and she expected him to kiss her again, but instead of molding his lips to hers, he brushed his mouth across the slope of her cheek in the briefest of touches. “Good night, Doctor,” he whispered and then he turned and hurried down the porch steps to dash through the rain.
She stood in the glow of the porch lamp, her fingers curled possessively around the rose’s stem and watched him steer his truck around in her driveway before he drove into the night. Forcing herself inside, she closed and bolted the door. She didn’t know what was happening, but she was certain it wasn’t going to be good.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t get involved with Thorne again. No way. No how. In fact, she’d toss the damned flower into the garbage right now. Padding to the kitchen she opened the cupboard under the sink, pulled out the trash can and hesitated. How childish. Thorne was trying to make amends. Nothing more. She touched the side of her cheek, then placed the rosebud in a small vase, certain it would mock her for the next week.
“Don’t let him get to you,” she warned, but had the fatalistic sensation that it was already too late. He’d gotten to her a long, long time ago.
* * *
Thorne parked outside of what had once been the machine shed and eyed the home where he’d been raised, a place he’d once vowed to leave and never return. Though it was dark and the rain was coming down in sheets, he saw the house looming on its small rise, warm patches of light glowing from tall, paned windows. It had been a haven at one time, a prison later.
He grabbed his briefcase and the overnight bag and wondered what had come over him. Why had he stopped at Nikki’s? There was more than just a simple apology involved and that thought disturbed him. It was as if seeing her again sparked something deep inside him, something he’d thought had burned out years before, a smoldering ember he hadn’t known existed.
Whatever it was, he didn’t have time for it and he didn’t want to examine it too closely.
Lights blazed from the stables and he recognized Slade’s rig parked near the barn. As he ducked through the rain he remembered the first time he’d seen Nicole—years ago at a local Fourth of July celebration in town. He’d been back from college, ready to enter law school in the fall, randy as hell and anxious to get on with his life. She’d only been seventeen, a shy girl with the most incredible eyes he’d ever seen as she’d staked out a spot on a hill overlooking the town and waited for darkness and the fireworks that were planned.
Funny, he hadn’t thought of that night in a long, long time. It seemed a million years ago and was tangled up in the other memories that haunted this particular place. As he walked up the front steps he remembered nearly drowning in the swimming hole when he was about eight, hunting pheasants with his brothers and pretending the cold silence between his parents really didn’t exist. But the memories that were the clearest, the most poignantly bright, were of Nikki.
“Yeah, well, don’t go there,” he warned himself as he yanked open the screen door. He walked inside and was greeted by the smells of his youth—soot from the fireplace, fresh lemon wax on the floors, and the lingering aroma of bacon that had been fried earlier in the day and still wisped through the familiar hallways and rooms. He dropped his briefcase and bag near the front door and swiped the rain from his face.
“Thorne?” Matt’s voice rang loudly through the century-old house. The sound of boots tripping down the stairs heralded his brother’s arrival onto the first floor. “I wondered when you’d show up.” Forever in jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Matt clapped his brother on the shoulder. “How’re you, you old bastard?”
“Same as ever.”
“Mean and ornery and on your way to your next million-dollar deal?” Matt asked, as he always did, but this time the question hit a nerve and gave him pause.
“I can only hope,” he said, unbuttoning his coat, though it was a lie. He was jaded with his life. Bored. Wanted more. He just wasn’t sure what.
“How’s Randi?” Matt asked, his face becoming a mask of concern.
“The same as when you saw her. Nothing new to report since I called you from the hospital.”
“I guess it’s just gonna take time.” Matt hitched his chin toward the living room where lamplight filtered into the hallway. “Come on in. I’ll buy you a drink. You look like you could use one.”
“That bad?”
“We could all use one today.”
Thorne nodded. “So where’s Slade?”
“Feeding the stock. He’ll be in soon. I was just on my way to help him, but since you’re here, I figure it won’t hurt him to finish the job by himself.” Matt flashed his killer smile, the one that had charmed more women than Thorne wanted to count.
Matt had been described as tall, dark and handsome by too many local girls to remember. The middle of the three McCafferty brothers, Matt’s eyes were so deep brown they were nearly black, his skin tanned from spending hours outdoors, and the shadow covering his jaw was as dark as their father’s had once been.
Sinewy and rawhide tough, Matt McCafferty could bend a horseshoe at a forge as well as he could brand a mustang or rope a maverick calf. Raw. Wild. Stubborn as hell.
Matt belonged here.
Thorne didn’t.
Not since his parents had divorced.
“Look at you.” Matt gave a sharp whistle. One near-black eyebrow cocked as he fingered the wool of Thorne’s coat. “Since when did you become a fashion statement?”
Thorne snorted in derision. “Don’t think I am. But I happened to be at work when Slade got hold of me.” Thorne hung his coat on an aging brass hook mounted near the door. The long wool overcoat seemed out of place in the array of denim, down and sheepskin jackets. “Didn’t have time to change.” He pulled at the knot in his tie and let the silk drape over his shoulders. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Good question.” Together they walked into the living room where the leather couches were worn, an upright piano gathered dust, and two rockers placed at angles near blackened stones of the fireplace remained unmoving. His great-grandfather’s rifle was mounted over the mantel, resting on the spikes of antlers from an elk killed long ago. “There’s not a lot to tell.”
Matt opened the liquor cabinet hidden in cupboards beneath a bookcase filled with leather-backed tomes that hadn’t been read in years. “What’ll it be?”
“Scotch.”
“Straight up?”
“You got it…well, I think.”
Matt scrounged around in the cabinet and with a snort of approval withdrew a dusty bottle. “Looks like you’re in luck.” He reached farther into the recesses of the cabinet, came up with a couple of glasses and, after giving them each a swipe with the tail of his shirt, poured two healthy shots. “I could get ice from the kitchen.”
“Waste of time. Unless you want it.”
Matt’s smile was a slow grin. “I think I’m man enough to handle warm liquor.”
“Figured as much.”
Thorne took the drink Matt offered and clicked the rim of his glass to his brother’s. “To Randi.”
“Yep.”
Thorne tossed back his drink, unwinding a bit as the aged liquor splashed against the back of his throat then burned a fiery path to his stomach. He rotated his neck, trying to relieve the kinks in his neck. “Okay, so shoot,” he said, as Matt lit tinder-dry kindling already stacked in the grate. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Wish I knew. Near as the police can tell, Randi was involved in a single-car accident up in Glacier Park. No one knows for sure what happened and the cops are still lookin’ into it, but, from what anyone can piece together, she was alone and driving and probably hit ice, or swerved to miss something—who the hell knows what, a deer maybe, your guess is as good as mine. The upshot is that she lost control and drove over the side of the road. The truck rolled down an embankment and—” he studied the depths of his glass “—she and the baby are lucky to be alive.”
Thorne’s jaw tightened. “Who found her?”
“Passersby—Good Samaritans who called the local sheriff’s department.”
“You got their names?”
Matt reached into his back pocket and withdrew a piece of paper that he handed to Thorne. “Jed and Bill Swanson. Brothers who were on their way home from a hunting trip. The deputy’s name is on there, too.”
He read the list of names and numbers, his eyes lingering for a second when he came to Dr. Nicole Stevenson.
“I figured we should keep a list of everyone involved.”
“Good idea.” Thorne tucked the piece of paper into his pocket. “So do you have any idea what Randi was doing at Glacier or anywhere around here for that matter? The last I heard she was in Seattle. What about her job? Or the father of the baby?”
Matt finished his drink. “Don’t know a damned thing,” he admitted.
“Well, that’s gotta change. The three of us—Slade, you and I—we’ve got to find out what’s going on.”
“Fine with me.” Matt’s determined gaze held his brother’s.
“We’ll start tonight.” The gears were already turning in Thorne’s mind. “As soon as Slade gets in, we’ll start making plans. But first things first.”
“Randi and the baby’s health,” Matt guessed.
“Yep. We can start digging around in her private life as much as we want, but it doesn’t mean a damned thing if she or the baby don’t pull through.”
“They will.” Matt was cocksure as the front door banged open and Slade appeared.
“Thanks for all the help,” the youngest brother grumbled as he marched into the room smelling of horses and smoke. He found a glass and poured himself a stiff shot.
“You managed,” Matt guessed.
Thorne rolled up his sleeves. “Why are you so sure that Randi and her boy will be okay?”
